“But of course the Van Cortlandts, Mr. Crane. Their wealth and position——”
Enoch did not reply.
“Sue says their house on Fifth Avenue is a palace of luxury!” exclaimed her mother.
“Window-curtains alone cost forty thousand dollars, they claim,” put in Ford over Enoch’s shoulder.
“Well,” sighed the little woman, “when you have millions—do be seated, won’t you? I’ve disturbed you, I fear. Don’t fib—I have, haven’t I?—just as you were having a good old chat with Ebner. Ah, you men, when you get together! Of course you can tell I’m a Southerner, can’t you, Mr. Crane? They say we old families from North Carolina never quite lose our accent. Sue was speaking about it at the Van Cortlandts only the other day.”
“Worth about three millions, ain’t he?” interrupted Ford.
“Who—Sam Van Cortlandt?” inquired Enoch, turning sharply to him as Mrs. Ford subsided on the sofa, and began to smooth out the wrinkles in her new lavender-silk dress with an air of a duchess trying to decide whether or not she should give it to the poor.
“Wasn’t it him that made that big corner in cotton about ten years ago?” asked the promoter.
“Yes,” said Enoch. “That was Sam Van Cortlandt.”
“Biggest thing ever done, wa’n’t it?”